A Quarrel of Oak and Flame
by DarkJackal
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield arrives at Bag End, but finds Gandalf's nomination for the last member of his Company to be sorely lacking. Will the wizard and the king of the dwarves come to an agreement over Bilbo the hobbit, or will burglar Baggins be out of a job?
1. Part 1

**Summary: **Based around Gandalf and Thorin Oakenshield's early discussions, as revealed in the "The Quest of Erebor", this story synthesizes information provided in _The Hobbit_, the _Unfinished Tales_, and the history of Durin's Folk from _Appendix A_ of _The Lord of the Rings_. It is also influenced, rather heavily, by images from Peter Jackson's upcoming film.

**Author's Note:**

_There are slight discrepancies between Bilbo's recollection of his first meeting with the dwarves, and Gandalf's later account, but a divergence of interpretation is expected given the varied points of view of wizard and hobbit. The tale related here is from the perspective of Thorin, the exiled king of Erebor, and shows how Gandalf was not the only one who felt convincing the dwarf to include a hobbit on the journey was "the most difficult part of the whole affair."_

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A Quarrel of Oak and Flame

Part I

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit, for which reason Thorin Oakenshield, proud heir of Erebor, spent much of the evening seated on a spindly wooden chair, in a very small dining room, surrounded by more of his kinsmen than could comfortably fit around the table. Gandalf had advised they leave their weapons in the entryway, or else risk an inadvertent massacre. Thorin had been loath to relinquish his sword, but it _was_ moderately amusing watching their hobbit host gingerly take each weapon—many of which were as long as the fellow was tall—and struggle to find places to put them. The antechamber soon became an unlikely armory, with pegs more used to coat and cap, than mace and ax.

The leader of the dwarves was already growing impatient while introductions and explanations were made. He had not dragged a dozen of his kin and kind along for a social visit, but to select the final member of their Company. In contrast, the wizard appeared in no hurry to get through the evening. Gandalf looked oddly at home in the hobbit's halls, despite having to duck low under every lintel. With a flash of fire, he lit a long pipe, and settled his grey form on a nearby stool.

Perhaps, because Thorin was the rightful King under the Mountain, Gandalf believed he would find this dwelling comfortable. But dwarves did not burrow like badgers into dirt. There were reasons they chose mountains, not mounds, in which to build their palaces. This warren was stifling, a feeling not lessened by the masses of hobbit "treasure" which lay heaped on tables and shelves around him. He could hardly move without sending clusters of objects hurtling to the floorboards. When describing the Shirelings' attributes, Gandalf implied they made things of great skill, but it appeared they valued quantity more than quality. There was little of the silver and gold he had been boasting of; mostly iron or wood, and crudely carved at that. Admittedly, there _were_ many books and parchments lying about, which might prove this Mr. Baggins was not as common as the clay he lived in, but it would take more than a scholar to oust a dragon from his nest. They needed someone with skill enough to defeat one of the greatest worms to come from the North. He was not certain the hobbit would win a battle against an earthworm, much less a spawn of Ancalagon the Black!

It seemed a matter of good fortune when he met Gandalf in Bree, just under a month ago. The old man was widely known to be a conjuror of good repute. Among the Khazâd, the deeds of Tharkûn, the _staff wielder_, had been recorded since his great grandfather's time. If any there were who might have power to aid him, it would likely be the wizard. So it came as a surprise when Gandalf's council led them nowhere greater than the village of Hobbiton, for the express purpose of hiring a thief.

He could not deny the wizard's assertion that they would lose a direct battle against the fire-drake, but almost anything would have been preferable to the frivolous plan he had proposed. Across the Misty Mountains, through the depths of Mirkwood, and into the Desolation of the Dragon did he expect them to travel with a hobbit in tow. And there, at the edge of all sanity, would they wait, until such time as their hired "burglar" worked out the secret of getting into the Mountain without Smaug perceiving it. The very idea was an assault to common sense, and after inspecting the chosen burglar, he had seen nothing to change this opinion. Baggins was more skittery than most of the Shire-folk they passed on the trip to Bag End. He could not imagine this fussy person being any use, except perhaps as bait. Even then, he doubted the beastly reptile would rouse himself for such a scant morsel!

It was a mark of their loyalty that his followers did not riot the moment they set eyes on the sandy-haired little mouse. Several laughed outright, as if it were a good jest, but Thorin found it far from amusing. He was not the only one. Balin, his closest friend and adviser, looked profoundly dissatisfied, while Balin's less subtle brother, Dwalin, growled like a dog spotting a rat.

He felt a stab of guilt that he could not produce something better to present to Balin, who had come to believe retaking the Mountain was of less importance than reclaiming the more ancient, and cursed, realm of Khazad-dûm.

In the midst of their initial discussions with Gandalf, Balin had spoken with typical candor, "Were it up to me, I would leave Erebor to the lizard. Dwalin and I have already been on one mission to take it back, and all it led to was your father's disappearance. In any case, the Mines are of far greater value in terms of resources and trade, not to mention strategically."

This had provoked a surprisingly brusque response from Gandalf. "If you intend to go calling at the doors of Khazad-dûm, you will go without my help."

Balin peered at him, sharp eyes glinting under snow-white brows. "The goblins were routed years ago. For all we know, the Mines are not even inhabited anymore."

"Not by anything you would want to meet," Gandalf muttered, then proclaimed more boldly, "Think well before you make Durin's Bane your own, Balin, son of Fundin."

Balin appeared ready to object, but Thorin had interceded. "Already enough ashes of our kin lie before those gates. Dáin would not speak of it, but his entry into the Mines left him shaken. I do not question his valor, so I can only assume it is beyond our means to defeat. We know the dragon is made of blood and bone, and for this reason I fear him not. I cannot say the same for whatever dwells in Khazad-dûm."

All this he felt to be true, but in addition, there was something in Erebor which he coveted more than all the veins of silver-steel under Barazinbar: the Arkenstone. The heirloom of his House. Ever since Thráin the Old found the gem, it had shone with a light which beamed most brilliantly before the eyes of Durin's Heirs. It was partly due to a desire for the stone that he let himself be led to the point they were at now; entreating the services of this silly thief. He would rather have done without such useless baggage, but unfortunately, Gandalf made it clear they risked his enduring disapproval were they to set out without the hobbit. The wizard had cursed them all for coal miners if Thorin would not agree to his plans.

The aggravating truth of it was, they were nearly at that point now. His people had been living as exiles in the stagnant Blue Mountains for over a hundred years. The once mighty range was eroded, and gone were the veins of wealth which fed the lost cities of Gabilgathol, and Tumunzahar. He feared the descendants of Durin's greatest smiths would make treasures no more, their talents wasted on lesser ore. But he would not allow any that lived in his halls to grow content with less. Several of the Company, including his nephews, Fíli and Kíli, had been born during the exile, but all were raised to know what they had lost. He would see his sister's sons come into their rightful inheritance before he was through.

He had promised Dís as much, before the Company took their leave of the very Halls he once helped build. She stood on the icy steps outside the Great Chamber, wrapped in a dark cloak, and an even darker mood, and he reckoned facing the dragon could not be significantly more difficult than facing her that day.

"Your sons will bring you back more gems than you could craft settings for, my skillful sister, even if you live to three hundred!" He had hoped his voice conveyed more certainty than he felt, but judging by her look of scowling contempt, it had failed rather fantastically.

"You are as dense as the oak whose name you bear!" she had snapped. "_They_ are my treasure, yet you steal them from me with less pity than a cold-drake!"

"I cannot steal what is freely given," he countered. "They come of their own will. I would not deny their right to go."

"No, but you could convince them otherwise. Tell them it is as much their duty to remain here, to lead our people, should you fail to return," she argued, eyes flashing emerald fire.

"You know that would only strengthen their resolve." He kept his voice even, hoping a rational tone would convince her of the veracity of his point. "There is nothing I can say to dissuade them."

But Dís only looked at him coldly. She understood him well enough to know when he was not being entirely forthright. And she was right; he did not want to discourage the boys at all. His father bequeathed the task to their House. If something should happen to him along the way, he was certain his nephews would continue in his place. Had he been more cruel, he might have chosen only one of them, dividing brothers who would rather die than be separated. He knew there was a saying of men, which cautioned against putting one's entire supply of some fragile thing, like eggs, in a single basket. No equivalent phrase existed among dwarves. True to his race, Thorin had chosen the more risky option.

He looked at Dís' sons as they sat in the hobbit's parlour, one the image of their mother, the other like their late father. They were already making the most of their freedom, laughing with their older companions, and enjoying being treated as equals, and all but untainted by their mother's sorrow. But that was as it should be. If all warriors troubled themselves over what their mothers thought, they would never set foot out of doors! But then, not all mothers had to worry about their sons meeting dragons. Unlike her boys, Dís had witnessed the horror they were heading for.

Neither he, nor Dís, had returned to their grandfather's kingdom since it fell beneath the flames of Smaug, though many a night, he dreamt of the Lonely Mountain's peak against a molten sky. Often, he awoke with memories of a sound no survivor could forget; the hissing whine as the creature drew breath through blackened nostrils into the bellows of its chest. The chill air was then set alight by a spark deep within, and the roaring fury, as it burst forth from serrated jaws, could be heard half a league away. He and his companions were near Ravenhill when they first heard the dragon approach. They could do little but gape in horror, while a red glow bloomed in the North-east, and the entire town of Dale was transformed into a smoldering brand. The warriors of Erebor had met Smaug at the gate of the Mountain, but his fires were hot enough to warp steel, and melt iron. It was beyond the strength of their armor to withstand, and they were roasted within, like chestnuts in their shells, as his father once bitterly described it. To journey to the East would be to revisit the nightmare, but it remained Thorin's burden to decide when and how the people of Durin would return.


	2. Part 2

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Part II

While their leader was content to brood on the past, Thorin's Company managed to entertain themselves; drinking beyond excess, and telling tales of battles they had been in, or wished they had been in. Mr. Baggins cast worried looks at his thirteen unruly guests, while his well-polished table top was pounded remorselessly, and his second-best mugs collided perilously. Thorin almost caught his glance, but too quick it darted away, like a trout in a stream, before he could spear him with a searching glare. The wizard was obviously mistaken. There was nothing daring about this hobbit, so far as he could see.

Gandalf refilled his pipe, while Dwalin and Glóin debated the merit of certain weapons for orc slaying. Were it not for the wizard's earlier foresight, they might have taken up hammer and ax in demonstration.

"A great hammer is worth more than its weight in gold!" Dwalin argued enthusiastically. "Your axes will dull and nick on their craggy skulls, but my hammer will never dent!"

"Not this again!" groaned Dori. "Did we not cover this ground last week?"

"Dwalin has a short memory," Glóin retorted, "as well as a faulty one, if he thinks my blades are anything but keen!"

Having actually given the matter some thought, Ori offered, "No formal tests have been recorded, but a hammer _should_ prove less efficient on the field. I reckon, if one were to line up a dozen orcs, and each of you worked your way down from the end, Glóin's ax would get to the center first."

"What!" roared Dwalin, looking ready to heave the table out of the way and encourage Ori to retract his statement.

"It is a simple matter of speed," Ori added quickly. "All else being equal, an ax cuts through air faster."

"Different strokes for different folks, I say," Nori remarked equitably.

"I don't see how either ax or hammer can beat a pair of stealthy daggers," commented Fíli, leaning back in his chair. "I could get two down before they even knew it."

"But I _want_ them to know it!" shouted Glóin.

"If it's numbers you're after, brother, I could kill five with my bow, before you could stab your two," Kíli said with a laugh. "And I need not be so close as to smell them!"

"Where's the glory in that!" cried Dwalin. "Who taught you lads how to fight? Elves? You had better keep a watch on them Thorin, or they may run off to live in the bloody trees, first chance they get!"

"Do not worry, mighty Dwalin," Fíli said smugly, "we will save some of the crippled ones for your laggard hammer."

Kíli snickered, and Dwalin bristled. Their sport could likely have gone on for a while, but Thorin did not need a well-meaning blood feud to break out just now. There would be plenty of time for that on the way.

"I hope," he addressed his nephews sternly, "that when you have run out of arrows, and broken your thin blades against some tough old orc's helm, that Dwalin's hammer will be there to save your green hides."

Summoning all the dignity of a loyal mastiff, Dwalin vowed, "To the end of my days will my hammer defend the Heirs of Durin!" Then turning to glower at Kíli and Fíli, he added, "However little sense they may or may not have!"

"Good to hear, old friend," Thorin said, genuinely pleased. "For this reason, I would never have taken to the road without you."

"I would not have let you!" Dwalin assured him. "I doubt you would've got far with cracked ribs and a broken leg," he added with a look of forbidding fidelity.

"It seemed less awkward just to bring you along, so you could break orc bones, instead of mine," Thorin said with a slight grin, then turned to address the group. "It will please you all to know, according to reports, the remaining stronghold of the goblins lies somewhere in the Misty Mountains, between us and Mirkwood. I am confident all will get fair opportunity to put their theories into practice. But now, we must finish the business we came for." He looked to Ori, who had a document ready to hand over. Having lost track of where the hobbit went, he barked loudly, "Mr. Baggins!"

It turned out the fellow was almost directly behind him, attempting to ascertain the condition of his crockery while refilling mugs. He was currently holding one three inches from his nose, peering critically at the rim, when the whole Company turned to look at him.

"Ah, there you are," Thorin muttered, presenting him with a parchment, scrawled end to end in red and black ink. Putting aside the mug, the hobbit accepted the document with a curious expression, which quickly turned to apprehension upon reading further. He looked toward Gandalf, who smiled encouragingly.

"Our terms," Thorin explained gruffly. Thinking the burglar would be of the usual sort, he'd had Ori draft an exceedingly thorough contract precluding all possibility of claims made beyond one fourteenth share of the profits (irrespective of whether or not the dragon was killed). Of course, it was now plain they need not have gone to such effort. The idea of Baggins trying to extort more than his share was ridiculous. He feared the whole endeavor would prove fruitless anyway. It was unlikely the fellow could steal from an apple cart, much less a dragon's hoard!

Someone called for a song while the hobbit was considering the contract. Bofur began a ribald tune, which was raucously taken up by the rest. But the exiled king was in no mood for irreverence. With eyes blazing like deep-set sapphires, he slammed his fist onto the table, jolting what remained of the flatware. Everyone fell silent, with the exception of the oblivious bard who began the melody. Bofur's solo was quickly interrupted by a generous allotment of ale over the head, courtesy of his more attentive neighbors. Bombur appeared slightly mortified by the wasted libations, and Thorin smirked, despite his irritation. "I believe," he said, voice rumbling like thunder through a vale, "that a song of the Mountain would be more appropriate." Balin, and several others, nodded their approval.

Softly, and with a sensitivity of sound unexpected in so robust a voice, Thorin began to sing:

"Beneath the Mountain, light is cast;  
>trapped in mirror and crystal clear,<br>bringing radiance to cavern vast,  
>dispelling shadow, vanquishing fear.<p>

With craft unmatched there delves  
>each Dwarf, who by Mahal was taught.<br>Not by hands of Men, nor Elves  
>are works of such perfection wrought.<p>

Anvil is struck, while coals blaze hot.  
>Word spreads far of smiths' great skill.<br>They craft a rich and golden lot,  
>which many a lofty hall would fill."<p>

Scenes of glory formed before the minds of the listeners, and they could almost feel the warmth of firelight caressing gold. As the lyrics laid down the history of the Lonely Mountain, the king's voice became more resonant, seeking to shake the gathered dwarves free from the confines of the Shireling's home. Even the hobbit, who had no prior experience, could envision halls carved by ancient craft, and forges stoked with a passion no other race could match. Soon, Thorin's sobering kinsmen joined in, and the room was thrust into a world much deeper than any hobbit dared dwell.

"The roots of the Mountain are inlaid  
>with silver seams, and golden veins.<br>None have fear this wealth will fade,  
>so long as the King of Erebor reigns.<p>

From snow on peak, the River comes,  
>down through channels dark and long,<br>then out from mouth of Gate it runs,  
>to wind through Valley, like a song.<p>

By River then, come men of Dale,  
>who visit often Thrór's great throne,<br>trading bright gold for shirts of mail,  
>to defend valiantly their home."<p>

The wealth and prosperity of Erebor's past danced almost within reach, and Baggins grew less furtive, perhaps beginning to understand the true importance of the proposed journey. Even as he sang, Thorin eyed the hobbit intently, ever searching for a trace of what Gandalf had described. There was something flitting behind the fellow's eyes, but it wasn't greed. That he knew well enough. And the very lack of it, in a supposed thief, warned him the wizard was being less than forthright.

Gandalf watched both dwarves and hobbit with shadowed eyes, while smoke from his pipe wove about them all. More than one of the Company would later admit to seeing a specter, with vaporous wings and scales of ash, creeping about the room, while the song twisted inexorably toward the coming of the dragon.

"Without warning, the River roiled,  
>churned by winged Worm of dread.<br>Stout courage of Men is foiled,  
>and all around, Dale's folk lie dead.<p>

To the Mountain then flies Doom,  
>deafening with his searing roar.<br>Warriors fall, sealed in their tomb,  
>and powerless is mighty Thrór.<p>

Like a flail, Smaug's tail does thrash,  
>breaking rock, and smashing stone.<br>What is left then turns to ash,  
>as fire leaps up, charring bone.<p>

The mighty forges now lie cold,  
>and ring of hammer long has ceased.<br>Yet still one furnace burns too bold,  
>inside the belly of the Beast.<p>

The Dragon crawls through tunnels dim,  
>sleeping long in halls of sorrow,<br>awaiting the return of Durin's kin..."

"And to this fate we go tomorrow!" Thorin improvised the last line, drowning out the original, which was slightly less to the point. The final note fell back into the depths from which it came, and the vapor drake dissipated. As he anticipated, the hobbit looked more shaken than inspired.

Noticing several of the dwarves staring at him expectantly, Baggins laughed nervously, "Oh my. Ah...a toast then, to...your journey, and...getting an early start on it!"

This was met with lackluster cheer, until a tankard was hoisted, and Glóin shouted a more popular toast, "To the Mountain!" The sentiment was echoed by his brother Óin, while around the table, mugs were cracked together vigorously.

With a sneer, Thorin raised his mug. "To Mr. Baggins, without whom we would not now be here." He intended it less than kindly, but it was apparent, by the general stomping of approval on the floorboards, that his meaning was wasted on his fellow dwarves. They had quite enjoyed themselves at the hobbit's expense. Baggins struggled to remain upright as Bifur thumped him heartily on the back. Thorin feared the hobbit may have already won over part of his Company. Renowned was the loyalty of dwarves, but rarely mentioned was how frightfully easy their allegiance could be procured, with little beyond a bountiful application of beer.

But Baggins still had not committed to the contract. Thorin shot an agitated look at the wizard. Perhaps the patience of Gandalf was boundless, but the king was wearying of what he believed to be time well and surely wasted. At the end of the night, he would have nothing more than a plan that was naught but thinly veiled madness, and a broken burglar to carry it out (if he had even that much). It was only then that Gandalf took the opportunity to conjure two items seemingly from the air; a well-creased parchment, and a small key. He presented both to Thorin, then turned to address Balin.

"When last we met, you told me the previous expedition to Erebor led to King Thráin's disappearance."

Eyeing the objects suspiciously, Balin answered, "Indeed, there were vile forces at work during our journey through Mirkwood, but for the King to be taken under our noses..." he stopped short, as if the memory caused him pain. Then, with a shake of his head, he continued, "I often suspect the elves had a hand in it, for they know all that happens under those bleak boughs. Of course, their emissaries denied all knowledge..."

Gandalf cut him off, "The wood-elves' fault lies in being blind to what was, and perhaps still is, living along their borders. But of harming Thráin, they are blameless. I know what became of him, for I was there when he died."

The old man's eyes swept back to Thorin, who had so far been silent. Many things now crossed the dwarf's mind, most of an unpleasant nature. But it was poor policy to harm the messenger, at least until the message was received.

"Continue," he ordered tersely.

"I shall," Gandalf said, with a touch of annoyance.

While Gandalf told the story of Thráin's discovery, Thorin's focus narrowed, until he was aware of nothing but the wizard's words. The leather of his gauntlet creaked as his fist tightened around the key. For over a hundred years, he had worked to keep his father's subjects together since his disappearance, and only now was he brought the final news of his unhappy destiny. By no means was it a fitting end. The once great dwarf had become a wasted prisoner in the dungeon of a sorcerer, driven mad, then left to die.

"Names no longer had meaning to him, so he let them fly free of his mind," Gandalf continued sadly. "Because of this, I knew not who he was, nor to whom I should convey his fate. I think he was holding on for one final opportunity, such as I presented. There was little I could do, except listen to what he would tell, and accept what he would give. That which you hold, Thorin Oakenshield, are the last heirlooms Thráin meant to pass on. A map of Erebor, and a curious key of silver. Since the Mountain is not difficult to find, I have hope there is something more useful hidden in the runes, but of the key, I am less sure." Gandalf searched the faces of the dwarves for any chance they might know in what lock such a key would fit. All stared back thoughtfully, yet without hint of any particular insight.

A thought had crossed Thorin's mind when he first saw the key, but the idea was vague, and would take careful consideration before it would be of any use. Unclasping the golden chain he wore—a symbol of glory lost—he threaded it through the key, then tucked it beneath his hauberk. He was belatedly aware of a presence lingering near his shoulder. The hobbit was peering at the map, apparently interested, despite himself. Standing, Thorin offered up his chair.

"Here my little burglar, have a better look," he said patronizingly.

"Ah, why thank you," replied Baggins, taking the proffered seat without a glance at Thorin, so intrigued was he by the map.

The new information caused much discussion among the Company, but their leader was only partially listening. The revelations had filled him with equal measures hope and ire. Perhaps the night was not as worthless as he thought; in addition to a timid thief, and a mad plan, he now had a map to a place he could have found in his sleep, and a key to a door he was not even sure existed. He laughed sharply, and several bearded faces turned quizzically toward him. When he showed no sign of further communication, they resumed their talk.

If nothing else, at least he now knew the final path his father had taken. It seemed unlikely Thráin would have lingered in torment only to pass on items of dubious worth. The Khazâd were nothing if not secretive, even among their own kind. The map might contain more substance than initial inspection could reveal, but only for those with the resolution to find it. He was quite sure whatever faults there might be in the House of Durin, lack of determination was not one of them.


	3. Part 3

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Part III

Having scrutinized the map of the Lonely Mountain to his satisfaction, Mr. Baggins made certain his guests were stashed for the night in as many bedrooms as could be found, though he was forced to pack the overflow in cellars and storerooms. Thorin doubted they would notice, having downed more than enough of the Shire's best brews to care. Bidding Gandalf good-night, the hobbit retreated to whatever nook was not already filled with dwarves.

Thorin remained by the edge of the table, eyes moving to the map which lay unfolded on its surface. Among many things, it bore the royal runes of his father and grandfather. He traced over the marks, anger sparking at the thought of all the parchment signified. Turning to Gandalf, he announced reproachfully, "Very considerate of you, to finally tell me of my father's fate."

The wizard sat facing the hearth, and its red glow cast shadows within the lines of a care-worn face. "I remembered the items after our last meeting, but it took some consideration before I understood the connection," he explained. "I did not intend to keep the information from you."

"As you have already said," Thorin replied scornfully. Whether or not there was truth to this, it had been a calculated move, saving the revelation for the moment he was ready to storm from the hall, and forget the wizard's little pack-rat for good.

"A long time have I kept them out of dwarven hands, and for that I may be amiss," Gandalf admitted with a hint of regret. "Yet some things mark time in their own way, to be discovered only when the moment is right."

"Your vague assurances are a great consolation," Thorin snorted. The pressure of the silver key on its golden chain weighed far more heavily on his mind than on his chest. His father's last desire had been that he use these heirlooms to win back their land, yet unless their secrets could be learned, they would grant no further chance of success.

They spent the dwindling hours before dawn speculating on the potential properties of the map and key, and arguing over the matter of the hobbit. Gandalf parried each skeptical remark with assertions about the enduring bravery of the Shire-folk.

"I won't deny they are not as hardy as dwarves—nor quite so hard-headed—but they are resilient in their way; as much survivors as your people."

"Then why haven't I heard tales of this legendary fortitude?" Thorin asked sarcastically.

"Hobbits feel no need to boast to folk they do not know, a fact which greatly limits their reputation. But never fear, you are not alone in ignorance. Bilbo never heard of you before."

Thorin frowned. His halls in the West were not as splendid as he would have liked, but they were the closest thing to a kingdom in the lands bordering the Shire. "I find that hard to believe," he said, a touch haughtily.

"Do you?" Gandalf raised a grizzled eyebrow. "How many of Bilbo's people have you bothered to speak to, unless it was to shout for ale from the bar-keep in the Green Dragon, or yell at the lads loitering along the Great Road?" When Thorin made no reply, he continued, "I thought as much. Like many of the Elder races, you underestimate what you do not understand. I have been trying my best to rectify the matter."

"Yes, you have been trying. I only wonder why," Thorin remarked with a sideways glance. From the beginning, a concern had been chipping away at his willingness to believe Gandalf. He sensed the wizard was hiding something, and like most dwarves, he had little tolerance for obfuscation. "For the sake of argument, I will concede the possibility of brave hobbits. But this _particular_ hobbit does not appear to qualify. A burglar is a far cry from a hero, and I had not set my expectations high. But even so, you have told me nothing _he_ has done to merit my faith. If he is such a professional, why did your thief's eyes not glaze with greed for the treasures we sang of? And why didn't he show more concern over the matter of shares?" Thorin gestured sharply to the contract that Baggins had neatly refolded and placed on the sideboard. "Never have I met a less avaricious treasure hunter!"

"And I suppose this bothers you," Gandalf said with a heavy sigh.

With a low growl, Thorin struggled to resist tossing the contract into the fire. Mastering his vexation, he grated, "It _does_ when I am already doubtful of his talents. Now I am equally dubious of his motivation!" His eyes narrowed. "I have little reason, beyond your word, to believe he has the determination to perform any part of what we require."

"My _word_ should be reason enough!" Gandalf countered. "But of that may you yet learn. I assume these concerns arise from Bilbo's quiet manner. The ability to be surreptitious is a most desirable trait in a burglar, wouldn't you say?"

"Timidity is not equivalent to stealth," Thorin chastised. "I think it a reasonable request that he not quake and crumble at the first sign of danger."

"Oh, he may quake quite a bit, but he will not crumble," Gandalf assured, "at least not before your own folk do."

The dwarf laughed at the absurdity of the idea. "You believe my people will be hindered by fear? Was it not the courage of the Khazâd which kept Glaurung at bay during the Fifth Battle?"

"Indeed it was," Gandalf answered shortly. "Do not suppose I think you incapable of defeating old Smaug, were you to lead an army of the magnitude present in the Elder days, and protected by the same enchanted armor in which they met that ancient foe. But you have neither. I trust you have not forgotten the toll the wingless worm took on Azaghâl, Lord of Belegost?"

"Never shall dwarves forget the great Lord's sacrifice," Thorin intoned reverently.

"And so you shouldn't, but I worry pride clouds your interpretation of history. I would remind you, it was not the mighty leader of the dwarf-host that ultimately killed Glaurung, but a lone hero, who laid a cunning trap..."

"Yes, yes," Thorin interrupted impatiently, "and the man Túrin died for his troubles as well. All this I know, and it is not lightly that I choose to return to the Mountain now..."

"I doubt you know the whole tale of Túrin Turambar's fate," Gandalf intruded. "Even I know only fragments," he added quietly. "Regardless, I do not wish to see the last of Durin's line killed fighting the last of the dragons, however poetic it may sound. Though if you remain obstinate," he locked eyes with the dwarf, "I may be inclined to change my opinion."

"If it takes my death to roust Smaug from Erebor, then I go to it gladly," Thorin concluded boldly.

With waning tolerance, Gandalf remarked, "A fool and his fate are soon joined. It is only a pity it may not be contained to you alone!"

The king of the dwarves was unused to being spoken to so sharply, especially by someone who was turning out to be of less use than a traveling showman. The wizard had yet to supply the proof he demanded, and Thorin wondered, if it were indeed more than chance which drove them to meet, was it to ensure the success of his mission, or its final failure? Long brewing aggravation finally overtook him, and his words lost all semblance of diplomacy. "If this plan is some contrivance to undermine my claim to Erebor, I swear by the Seven Fathers I will..."

With a loud crack, Gandalf's staff struck the floor, and the light of the fire shrank away from the conjuror. The threat Thorin had been composing died in his mind, as the hall was cloaked in darkness. A crystal on the end of the staff flared into blue life, and the sudden stark brilliance paled the wizard's features, making him appear wraith-like. Even to the dwarf's night-keen eyes the effect was dramatic. It was a conspicuous reminder that the old man who talked nonsense of hobbits was more powerful than he appeared.

"You will what, great King?" Gandalf asked grimly. The wizard's bright eyes bored into his, and Thorin believed he could see his own true fear reflected therein, like a fissure in the depths of a diamond. A lifetime of men had passed since the coming of Smaug, and he had yet to bring the wrath of the Khazâd to the dragon. Having waited for an event to turn the tide of ill luck, he knew now it would never come. Without a change in fortune, the quest would be no more than a vain attempt to satisfy the same urge which had driven his forefathers to glory, and to ruin.

Having failed to answer his question, Gandalf continued, "You ask for my guidance, yet you are as difficult to compel as a ram along the path of a weary traveler!" he said in exasperation. "But do not presume, because I have lived long, that I have infinite patience. Quite the reverse. Were you to know me better, I dare say you would be grateful I lend you my time at all, for I come not to the aid of every beggar king who has lost his realm!" The wizard stared unremittingly at him, and Thorin lowered his gaze sooner than he would have admitted, were he forced to relate the events later. But Gandalf was not finished. "The fate of the rock you revere, and the treasures within, mean little to me, and I will find other means to my ends if I must, but...," here his voice softened slightly, and the glow from the staff began to fade, "I see an opportunity to benefit us both. Indeed, I fear there is more at stake than the fate of dwarves and hobbits combined, though of that, I do not expect you to trouble yourself."

The concerns of old Tharkûn were indeed vast, and it was apparent the wizard was as frustrated as he, if for different reasons. Thorin felt a glimmer of shame for thinking only of his own necessity, but the feeling was swiftly banished. He could spare little mind to whatever vague imperilment Gandalf was preoccupied with.

As the wizard lowered himself into a seat across the table, the firelight crept back into the room, and the hall returned to its homely state. Gandalf appeared once again to be no more than a man of numerous years, with too many of those spent in conflict. When next he spoke, his voice had lost its dangerous edge, "I will admit your suspicions are partly correct; I have my own reasons for choosing Bilbo, not least because I am fond of him, which you may not understand."

Thorin's brow furrowed. "If sending the fellow into a dragon's den is a mark of your fondness, I will endeavor to stay out of your favor!" he promised.

"Fear not, for you are in no danger of that!" Gandalf replied, only partially in jest. "I have already told you the logic behind my choice. As I explained, the Elder races know little of hobbits. But you must regard this criticism as good council, for the same holds true of the great worms. I believe this is as much a key to our success, as that which hangs around your neck."

Thorin considered these words, for the first time endeavoring to look beyond his own misgivings. After all, the wizard was rumored to be among the Wise. Perhaps the path to wisdom was such that a straightforward march would pass it by, and only an unlikely guide could find it. He hardly knew what to make of it all, but he remembered Thrór once said it was the mark of a fool to quarrel with an ally, however untested he might be. If Gandalf was willing to speak for the hobbit, then he would have to take the risk.

Bowing his head, he entreated, "Forgive me, Master Gandalf. Despite all your efforts, I cannot envision what benefit this burglar will be to us. Yet it is the burden of a king to accept aid, as much as to lend it. As it stands, you want my trust, and I have need of your help, so we must trade as best we can."

At these words, a smile broke across the wizard's features, like light into a shadowed canyon, and his voice grew jovial, "I have had few dealings with your kind of late, but I should have realized overcoming the intractability of dwarves would not be simple." Raising his hand to forestall Thorin's unvoiced comment, he continued, "Stay your ire, it is not meant unkindly. For it is this same reason the Khazâd make poor weapons of the Shadow. The Necromancer failed to break the heart of your father, though his mind was lost. I will rest easier once the lands below the Grey Mountains are in the hands of Thráin's son."

The weight of this statement settled heavily upon Thorin. Many leagues, and unknown peril, stood between him and the throne of Erebor, and he replied with rare humility, "I fear we have a long way to go, before you may rest."

"Speak for yourself!" Gandalf proclaimed with a laugh. "There are a few more hours before night gives way to day, and I plan to make the most of them." He stood and headed toward the hallway. Pausing as he bent to pass beneath the rounded entrance, he offered, "You should know that Bilbo has given up his own quarters for your use. They are as well-appointed as any in the Shire. You will sleep well, if you choose to sleep at all. Good-night!"

Apparently the Wise did not miss a wink, Thorin thought, as he watched Gandalf disappear down the hallway. He knew it would seem ungrateful were he to decline the hobbit's sacrifice, but he doubted sleep would come, however comfortable the setting. Procuring his pipe from among the supplies left in the study, he made his way outside.

Standing on the doorstep of Bag End, Thorin could not have been further removed from the concerns of Erebor, but even while his eyes watched the pipe-smoke curling up toward slate-grey clouds, his mind was fixed on the lost kingdom. To the West, still shrouded in dark mist, were the Blue Mountains. The chance he would never see them again was very real, but he did not regret his decision. Long had he known his life was little but a prologue to something greater. A subtle glow beyond the eastern hills warned that dawn could not be denied for long, and he hoped, that as the sun rose on a pleasant spring morning, the real journey would finally begin.

~Fin~


End file.
